


May you inherit his light

by nerdy-flower (baconnegg)



Series: Vegamarch Chronicles [3]
Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Easter, Established Relationship, Family Fluff, Gen, Holidays, I love these dorks so much, I only gave him one oops, I wrote half of this and realized Hugo canonically has brothers, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Past Character Death, Slice of Life, good communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 22:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12713802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baconnegg/pseuds/nerdy-flower
Summary: It's Damien's turn to meet Hugo's family! Less nerves, more confusion. Just a bunch of dorks doing their best.(Not essential to have read the previous parts, just adds context for this weird lil 'verse I've made)





	May you inherit his light

Duchess Cordelia’s efforts to engage one of her favourite humans in a game of fetch end in vain one chilly mid-March night. Hugo is up to his eyes in mid-terms, stretched out on the couch and marking them up with his new stash of bright green pens, after the school board determined red ink to be ‘too aggressive.’ Ernest is similarly ensconced, eyes focused and feet kicking under the dinner table as he pieces his way through some nearly-due math homework. Damien notices her forlorn state and scratches her ears apologetically, quickly going back to assisting and encouraging Ernest. Not the boy’s favourite subject, but he isn’t all that bad at it provided he has time to figure out the problems on his own. 

Hugo’s phone goes off to the loud horn section from the _Jurassic Park_ theme, drawing Damien’s attention as he practically shoves his grading off his lap. Ernest loses his concentration, grinning widely as he answers. “Marcel! Hey, how are you doing? It’s been forever!” 

“Tell him I want cash for my birthday!” Ernest calls out as Hugo starts pacing around the living room. 

“Ernest, really? - Oh, you heard that? Yeah, like you’re an ATM or something- What’s wrong?” Hugo stops, his loud voice dropping considerably. “No, I can tell you’re upset- Don’t be sorry, just tell me- Hang on a sec, okay?” 

Hugo beats a path down the hall into the guest bathroom, quickly shutting the door and rendering his voice an inaudible hum. Ernest’s expression falls into a familiar tense frown, his fists balling up. Duchess drops her toy and leans heavily against their legs while Damien purses his lips and tries to go back to drawing practice equations, his eyes flicking down the hall as the minutes tick by. 

After a half-hour or so, the door squeaks open, Hugo padding out slowly, massaging his neck with his free hand. “-No, no, no, I told you it’s fine- Mar, it’s fine. Okay? At least you’ll get to visit with us and- Just- relax for a bit and text me if you need anything. Alright, love you. Bye.” 

“What’s wrong?” Ernest snaps as soon as Hugo hangs up, homework entirely forgotten. 

Hugo sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose where his glasses have dented the skin. “You know how your uncle’s landlord was selling his building and he was going to have to move by the end of this month?” 

“What’s _wrong?_ ” Ernest jumps up and shouts so fiercely that Damien startles, moving to dodge the chair Ernest kicks back. 

“He’s fine, completely fine, but he just lost his job.” Hugo holds his hands out in a calming gesture. “Only two weeks’ notice, all because his boss wanted to ‘cut costs,’ the ungrateful- Anyway, obviously he’s in a tight spot, so he’s going to come and stay with us until he sorts everything out. Is that okay with you?” 

“Well yeah, obviously,” Ernest slumps down in a huff. “We can’t just let him be homeless or whatever. What’s he gonna do with all his furniture and junk? It’s not going in my room, is it?” 

“No, he’ll probably put it in storage. He just found out today so he’s feeling a little blindsided.” Hugo frowns at his phone, putting it to sleep and tucking it in his shirt pocket. “God, I barely knew what to say. Mom’s supposed to be coming for a visit anyway. Maybe she’ll be able to help.” 

“I imagine he needs a little time to recuperate from such a nasty blow,” Damien adds, petting Duchess when she affectionately bumps his knee. “I’m sure being here will lift his spirits. Perhaps this could be a fresh start for him?” 

“I hope so,” Hugo runs his fingers through his hair, still tied back in the knot Damien so very much wants to undo. Ernest quickly exits the room with his barely-finished homework, the calm studiousness they attained now gone. “And- well, I’d hoped it’d be under better circumstances, but at least you’ll finally get to meet them. Got any plans for Easter?” 

Damien does not, and for the first time since he was young enough to believe in the Easter Rabbit, feels properly excited for the holiday. He even finds himself peering out the kitchen window that looks onto Hugo’s yard during a painstaking round of Thursday night housekeeping, noting an unfamiliar car pulling into the driveway. A man gets out, soon joined by a much more familiar silhouette, the two of them hugging tightly for some time. 

“Hey.” A tap on his shoulder with a feather duster. “If you’re gonna stalk your boyfriend, I’m gonna go back to marathoning Berserk.” 

“I’m not stalking,” Damien replies haughtily to his smirking son, giving the marble counter another generous spray of vinegar-soap mixture and scrubbing vigorously. “He lives next door, I’m accidentally observing. Did you start the dryer?” 

“Sure did,” Lucien leans over him to whack some cobwebs off the tops of the high cupboards. Goodness, he’s getting tall. He might well get the classic Bloodmarch late growth spurt and match Damien’s height. “So you’re meeting his family now, that’s pretty serious. Next stage is using the bathroom with the door open.” 

“Lucien! Don’t be crass.” 

“I’m just saying,” he shakes the duster into the wastebasket with a grimace. “After that is joint bank accounts and then you might as well send out the engagement party RSVPs.” 

It’s all in levity, but Lucien’s words hang over him the next morning. 

**HV: Hey! Come over whenever you want, we’re having a day in. Just a heads-up, Marcel’s a little quiet around new people. Don’t take it personally, he’ll warm up to you. See you soon xo**

He makes himself a quick brunch for one and takes his time showering and getting ready, snipping newly grown blooms from the garden and second-guessing every minor outfit choice. Oh, how dearly he wishes that he could go back in time and slap some empathy into himself! This was exactly as irrationally nerve-wracking as Hugo had made it seem. His brother’s just a person, his mother’s just a person, he’s just a person, there’s no inherent reason for conflict or worry, and _yet-_ -

Lucien comes shuffling by around one or so, still in an unrecognizable band t-shirt and faded black pajama shorts. He pauses, walking over to where Damien sits at his antique vanity table applying his eyeliner and sticking his hand out. “Give me that, before you turn yourself into a raccoon.” 

“Thank you,” Damien gratefully lets him take the pen from his shaking hands. He shuts his eyes as Lucien leans down to draw over his eyelids in careful, neat flicks. “I’m only a little worried. You’ll be here all alone and there’s hardly anything open, and it seems rather cold to leave you since it’s a holiday and all. Perhaps if I come home for dinner we could watch a movie and-“ 

“Dad,” Lucien interrupts, equal parts kind and teasing. “Godless teenagers don’t give a damn about Easter. I’ll be chilling in my underwear all day. Relax.” 

“Perhaps more than your dear old dad needed to know,” Damien chuckles, feeling a breeze as Lucien flaps his hands to dry the makeup. “Still, I feel as though you’re being left out because of your allergies. It’s only that I don’t know what their plans are and I don’t wish to presume that coming over here or going out will be a part of them. Maybe I’ll stay here on Sunday and-“ 

“ _Dad_ ,” Lucien repeats, dragging the word out and rolling his eyes. “Your boyfriend wants to show you off to his family. It’s important. I’ll be absolutely fine. We can hang out anytime.” 

Damien feels his chest tighten with sentimentality, standing to embrace his nearly-grown son. “Your maturity continues to impress me so greatly.”

“Oh my god,” Lucien scoffs, briefly returning the hug before wriggling away and spinning his father around. “Okay, get going, Hugo’s probably wondering where you are.” 

Damien picks up the flowers, steadying himself. “Call me if you need anything, alright? I love you.” 

“Love you too, please leave.” 

Moments later, he’s being let into the Vega household by a dressed-down Hugo (one of his favourite looks on the man, in spite of his own fanciful tastes). Ernest is folded up on the couch, tapping something out on his tablet while discordant music blares from it. He passes it back to the man sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a mastiff splayed lazily across his legs, who taps a few more rapid noises out before clambering to his feet. 

“Oh god, my legs, put that dog on a diet- Hello, I’m the brother, nice to meet you,” Marcel shakes Damien’s hand somewhat stiffly. He’s a little shorter than Hugo, with Ernest’s rounded cheeks and the prominent Vega chin, both covered in faint stubble. His dark, sleepy eyes look somewhere past Damien while he winds a finger around one of his shorter, fluffy brown curls that are sticking up on end, seemingly from Duchess’ affection, if the coating of brown hair on his grey joggers and dark green Henley are anything to go by. 

“Damien Bloodmarch, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Damien pushes the bouquet towards him. “For you, for allowing me to join you this weekend, I hope you like crocuses.” 

“Uh, I mean,” Marcel stares puzzled at the flowers. “I don’t actually live here, but thanks?” 

“Here, I’ll put them in a vase.” Hugo takes them and lays them carefully in the kitchen sink. “I just made myself some lunch, are you hungry?” 

“I’m quite alright, my love.” 

Ernest is deeply engaged with a plate of pizza rolls atop of a stack of Toni Morrison, so he turns to Marcel, who has taken to the couch to carry on using the unusual music application on his nephew’s tablet without Duchess’ interference. “Mar, did you eat yet?” 

“Mm? Oh yeah,” he answers, eyes trained on the screen. “I had some of your strudel things when I got up.” 

“That was more than five hours ago!” Hugo grabs the plated tomato-and-cheese sandwich and shoves it at him. “Here, eat, I’ll make another one.” 

Marcel pouts familiarly, his tone flat, lacking malice but a little biting. “Keep it. I’ll make something in a bit.” 

“You’ll forget again, take it.” Hugo pushes it into his personal space, his brother smacking it away. 

“I’m not two, take your sandwich and shove it.” 

“Okay,” Hugo replies, seemingly exasperated. He steps away, only to set it down quietly on one of the shelves behind the couch, grab one half of the sandwich and then Marcel’s nose, shoving it quickly into his mouth when he goes to breathe. Ernest laughs and Hugo smirks triumphantly as Marcel gags. “There, now it’s your sandwich. Eat it before you pass out.” 

“Oh my god- Ernest, c’mere,” Marcel waits for his nephew to scoot over so he can cover his ears. “You are such a colossal pain in the ass! I could have choked to death!” 

“I can still hear you,” Ernest adds, frowning incredulously. “Also, I’m almost in high school.” 

“I just got my first aid training redone, I would have saved you.” Hugo affectionately shoves his brother’s shoulder, dodging a retaliatory swipe on the way back to the kitchen. 

Marcel takes a long, resentful chew of his newly acquired lunch, observing Ernest’s hyper-focus on whatever it is they’re working on. “So, Damien, tell me something about yourself that Hugo hasn’t already told me in great detail.” 

“Well, er,” Damien nervously settles into one of the armchairs opposite them. “What would be excluded by that?” 

Marcel drums his fingers on his chin thoughtfully. “Your intelligence, your kid, your garden, your volunteer work, and your physical attractiveness.” 

A knife scrapes loudly against ceramic in the kitchen. “Marcel! _Cállate_!” 

Marcel’s smile twitches up, unphased. “He hasn’t told me about your job.” 

Damien’s lips press tightly together. “Ah, it’s a bit boring. I’m a systems administrator.” 

“Cool– less drums, kiddo, it’s not for a marching band –tell me more about that.” 

The afternoon proceeds in the same lazy fashion, watching television and lolling around, conversation drifting in and out. Damien feels a little out of place, if not for Hugo’s hand always warm upon his knee. Eventually it’s decided that they should eat out, since one of the nearby restaurants is still open and they’ll have plenty of home cooking once their mother arrives. 

Marcel listens thrice as much as he speaks, and Damien begins to wonder if it really is shyness or if he dislikes his brother’s unusual choice of partner. The restaurant seems to perk them all up, a buffet-style place filled with chatty groups and families who had the same idea. 

Hugo is his typical talkative self, half-telling stories about their childhoods and letting Marcel finish them off from where he sits tucked into the booth’s corner. He acts as an icebreaker, clearing a path for Marcel to enter. Ernest’s mouth is full of food more than half the time, all-you-can-eat being the perfect meal style for a boy his age, but even he’s more animated than usual. The three of them colouring verbal portraits of a shared history. Santo movies and family vacation anecdotes and differing perspectives on awkward incidents at wedding receptions spin before Damien’s eyes and ears, adding zest to the stories he’s only known through Hugo’s soft, laughing voice during their late-night pillow chats. 

“Hey Tio, who was that kid who tried to burn the stage down during an assembly?” 

“Oh my god, I haven’t thought about that in like two years,” Marcel scrubs a hand over his face. “That was Josh Samwell. Kid creeped me right out, I think he’s in jail now for like- selling heroin or something. And it wasn’t an assembly, it was during _West Side Story-_ “ 

“I remember you calling me and telling me about that! Wasn’t it on closing night?” 

“Yeah, it closed alright!” Marcel laughs roughly. He has a lovely, wide smile when prompted, clearly genetic. “There I was up on the risers, trying to harmonize with a bunch of squeaky tenors during ‘Tonight’ and I finally notice smoke coming out from behind the curtain. Total chaos. I had to walk home because my ride tripped, broke their wrist, and had to go with the paramedics. We did get a couple days off school while they did the clean-up, though.” 

“Good heavens,” Damien comments, sipping on his ginger ale. “So you were involved in theatre? I did the costumes for our school musical one year, they were terrible but it was a bit of fun.” 

“Eh, not officially. Mom let us have one costs-money extracurricular each. Hugo picked wrestling, I picked choir.” Marcel tosses another hunk of chicken into his mouth, adding in an equally deadpan tone. “If only we’d reversed that, then at least one of us might have gotten some action in high school.” 

Hugo is mid-gulp of his Coke and breaks into a raucous loop of laughter and coughing. He tries to mute it with his hand, but he’s still loud enough that the next table looks at them askance. Ernest pulls a face and goes back to piling mozzarella sticks into his mouth. 

Marcel smirks, cheeky and self-satisfied. “What? Too real?” 

“Just- just a little,” Hugo wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye. The two men are grinning at each other like little boys. Their faces alight in a way that makes Damien’s heart swell with affection. 

Marcel’s energy starts to dip during dessert, quietly retreating while his brother picks up the slack. He goes entirely quiet when Hugo unobtrusively pays for all four of them. Ernest hustles upstairs as soon as they get home, saying something about video games. Marcel leans into his brother, quickly muttering something before disappearing down the basement stairs to the not-quite-finished spare room Hugo had made up for him. 

Unsure if he’s expected to depart for home or not, he hesitantly follows Hugo to the kitchen, where he’s already going through the nightly tea ritual that may or may not have been foisted upon him by Damien. “Mind if I have a cup, my dear?” 

“Not at all,” Hugo smiles warmly, setting up a second chipped, comically-captioned mug while the kettle boils. He pulls Damien close and nuzzles against his neck. “Three guesses as to who’s grading middle school vocab tests tonight so he doesn’t have to do it on Sunday when he’s too tired?” 

“If I guess right, do I win the prize of helping so it doesn’t take as long?” 

“Oh, God yes.” Hugo laughs, a tickle against Damien’s ear. “Just make tick marks, no comments. If anyone notices, I’ll get another passive aggressive email that I really don’t need.” 

“I can manage that,” Damien accepts a kiss and fixes his tea, following Hugo to the spread of marking in the living room. The stacks are high and offer a slightly disappointing glimpse into current literacy rates, but they’re easy enough to tick through and pass back over for final grading. “If it’s not too intrusive to ask, is your brother- upset?” 

“Hm?” Hugo looks up, his glasses slipping down his nose. “Oh! Not at all, he just runs out of social spoons easily and needs a break now and then.” 

Damien nods, understanding intimately and quite relieved. Hugo smiles, seeming to read his mind. “He likes you for sure. If he didn’t, he’d be icing you out completely. When I brought home Jake the Mistake for reading week, Marcel set up a bunch of mousetraps on his side of the bed and woke us up by setting off the smoke alarm at six a.m.” 

“Good Lord,” Damien blanches. “Was Jake the one who-“ 

“Cheated on me with my roommate? Oh yeah, Marcel was grounded for two months but he called that one.” Hugo drinks his tea, looking almost fond beneath the stress lines in his brow. “He says he’s really judgemental, but it’s always paid off.” 

They clip through the stack of tests quite quickly, Damien clearing the table while Hugo preps some slides and notes for Monday. They share a moment’s intimacy in the relative privacy of the wrestling room before Damien excuses himself home, leaving Hugo content with his remote and comfortable chair. He checks in with Lucien, ensuring and assuring that all is well before being cut off by a tightly shut door when he asks why Lucien said he’s conversing with “some friends” on Skype, but only one voice can be heard. 

Damien has an idea why, courtesy of Ernest’s less-than-quiet remarks about a certain barista, but he’ll spare his son from his curiosity for now.

The next morning, Damien runs some errands and enjoys lunch and gardening with his son while the Vegas Three make the long drive to the train station. Ernest must have wrangled the aux cord, because Damien hears the thump and blare of the _Hamilton_ soundtrack as he’s paying some bills. On their return, Damien is waved over from his front porch and introduced to their mother before a brief argument breaks out about who’s carrying which bags. 

Anita is kind-eyed and especially pretty, finely wrinkled around the eyes and mouth with high cheekbones. Leaner like Marcel, a few streaks of Hugo’s darker shade of brown remaining in her long, silver braid. Dressed in nice jeans and a snazzy tan jacket, slender jewelry glinting on her neck, ears, and fingers as she takes Damien’s hand. 

He greets her with utmost politeness and thrusts the flowers forward, another bundle of newly-bloomed crocuses, at the first opportunity. Her eyebrows dart up before smoothing out with her smile. “Oh, how lovely! And what did you two bring me, hm? Groceries so I could cook you something for dinner?” 

Hugo and Marcel begin stammering over each other that they didn’t- that they weren’t planning- that that’s not- but she merely laughs and leads Damien and her grandson inside, an affectionate hand on the back of Ernest’s scruffy head. 

Once inside, Damien darts and weaves through conversation, rushing in with (perhaps slightly pre-rehearsed) information about himself when asked and then quickly stepping back when the family talks amongst themselves, about the coarseness of Marcel’s layoff and the goings-on of Salem, where Anita has recently made her home. He’s not the focus of the visit, merely an extra. But retired or not, Anita’s teacher side shines through and he feels as at ease and included as he did in his small senior year poetry class. She slips into roles like a stage player rapidly changing costumes, in the space of one sentence she’s maternal, scholarly, and so endlessly convivial that Damien takes to her at once. 

After much commiseration regarding unpaid overtime, demanding customers, and thankless, self-centred management, Anita gently proposes the idea of Marcel opening his own business, certain that he’s talented enough to do it. Hugo seems to latch onto the idea, his eyes gleaming despite his brother’s gentle insisting that he’ll need some kind of stable employment to acquire an apartment, let alone the kind of loan such a venture would require. The oncoming hunger of dinner disperses the discussion, Anita taking over the kitchen despite repeated insistences from her sons that they “only stuffed the fridge because the Hannaford is closed until Monday.” 

Damien clarifies upon being asked that he’s vegetarian, not vegan, and gets distracted by a series of increasingly confused texts from a junior employee dealing with yet another weekend emergency. He steps into another room to handle the mess before it escalates into something he has to fix. Speaking of shiftless owners, sure, let’s paint every office a hideous yellow for no reason instead of spending money on proper training, what a brilliant use of fiscal resources. 

He returns to find Hugo bent over his laptop on the coffee table, at least eight tabs open on various self-employment resources. He keeps reporting his findings enthusiastically to Marcel, who’s flipping through something on his phone and partly listening. Damien’s half-tempted to ask Hugo if he’s the one who wants a career change. Still, it’s sweet for him to be so invested, even if Marcel seems to find it a touch vexing- 

“Oh my _god_ , will you stop riding my dick for _five minutes_?” 

Right. More than a touch, then. 

“What the hell is your problem?” Hugo snaps back as his brother stalks away from the couch. “I’m trying to help!” 

“Did I ask for your help? Am I so incompetent that I need you to get my shit together for me?” Marcel turns on his heel, lip curled back and his jaw tight. “I promise, first thing Monday morning, I’ll start begging people to hire me, okay? If you could just get off my ass for two days-“ 

“I didn’t say you were incompetent, stop putting words in my mouth! God, you always overreact-“ 

Damien’s feet inch him back into the kitchen of their own accord. The brothers getting closer to each other, now shouting almost entirely in Spanish so he’s not quite sure to where it’s escalating. Hugo’s anger is such a rare thing, tempered by parental and professional patience into something more disappointed, but productive. An appropriate reaction completely escapes him, the burn of social faux paus seeping into him. 

Anita spots his retreat and half-smiles, encouraging him over to her spot at the stove. “Don’t worry about them, sweetheart. Here, help me grate the cheese.” 

“A-are you sure they’re alright?” Damien glances towards the kitchen window, watching an oblivious Ernest wave Duchess’ beloved rope toy over his head as she chases him. 

“Tch, it’s nothing, I promise.” Anita waves a neatly manicured hand as Damien anxiously shreds some mozzarella. “They used to share a room and do this a little every day. Now they only see each other once in a while, they have to get it all out in one go.” 

“I see,” Damien worries his lip as Hugo snarls something particularly tense in the other room. His limited experience of being, and then raising an only child feels particularly myopic now. “I just- wasn’t expecting this. The way Hugo described it, he sounded so fond of his brother-“ 

“Oh, he is! But that’s just the problem-” Anita hisses when the pan of meat spits grease at her hand, wiping it on the dishtowel tucked into her jeans pocket. “He sees him as his baby brother still, but Marcel’s an adult, he can’t put up with that for long anymore.” 

“Understandable.” Damien sets the grater aside, belatedly realizing that he ought to tie his hair back. “Parents see their children the same way, in my experience.” 

“Exactly! And- well, it’s a little bit my fault, too.” She flips a tortilla with chef-like precision, her mouth curving on a sad smile. “Hm, maybe I shouldn’t say- but by what Hugo’s told me, you’re as good as family already, I might as well.” 

Damien flushes, surely visible, and the older woman continues, her voice low amid the background noise. “When Hugo’s father passed- he must have told you about it?” Damien nods, though it was a very brief telling when they were first merely becoming friends. “It was very sudden. You know how people say ‘drop dead?’ That’s what he did, on the way back from lunch. Some terrible heart problem, we had no idea. I’ve been sending the boys to the doctor every year since then, you can count on it- Anyway, Hugo was fourteen, Marcel was seven and I was- well, devastated.” 

Damien’s heart aches in sympathy. “The only appropriate reaction, given the circumstances.” 

A small, amicable smile at that. “Quite right. And in a stressful moment, I told Hugo I needed him to look after his little brother. I only meant keep an eye out for him, don’t be selfish the way teenagers can be- I only had one set of hands now and I needed- you know,” she sighs and tucks some hair behind her ear. The argument seems to have simmered down behind them. “But from then on, Hugo straightened up and took care of his brother. Still acted like a kid, of course, but I never once had to remind him to start dinner, get Marcel off the bus, anything. He just did it without thinking, like a parent would.” 

Anita sighs, her shoulders sinking as she turns down some of the elements. “Sometimes I worry if I put too much on him. Children are so mouldable at that age. I’m sure you’ve seen it with your boy.” 

Damien nods slightly, choosing his words with care. “I have, but I don’t believe that had a negative effect on your son. Responsibility is baked into the core of his very being. I see it in every aspect of him and it’s one of the many things I admire. Whether he was born or shaped that way matters little, he wouldn’t be himself without that steadfast nature.” 

Anita’s smile takes a moment, but it spreads warm and beautiful as she looks up at him. “Well, aren’t you sweet? He’s got good taste, hasn’t he?” Damien feels another flush burn his cheeks. “Here, he’ll pitch a fit, but I bet you’ll like this.” She slips her large, scratched phone from her back pocket and toggles around before handing it to him. “Marcel scanned all my old photos for me for Christmas. This is still one of my favourites.” 

The photo, quite clear but tinged yellow with age, shows a very young but recognizable Hugo. Sans glasses and a few teeth, sitting on a green hospital chair in sock feet with legs splayed, holding a swaddled, swollen-faced bundle of newborn Marcel and gaping at him with such absolute elation that he seems to shine in the hollow, fluorescent lighting. 

“He asked for a little brother for Christmas. Took us a few years, but we finally came through for him.” 

Damien claps a hand over his mouth to quash the high-pitched noise of delight escaping him. “Oh, Anita, how could you do this to me? I can’t- my _heart_ -“ 

She laughs merrily, taking her phone back and tapping through the photos. “I’ve got more, even cuter than that, I’ll have to log into the cloud and-“ Another cacophonous shouting match snaps to life behind them, sharper than the last one. “Oh for- _Hugo! Marcel! That’s enough!_ Cool off and come eat!” 

Marcel’s heavy footsteps storm off towards the bathroom while Hugo clomps into the kitchen, colour high on his face. “I don’t know what his problem is! I’m just trying to help him and he’s being stubborn, for no reason!” 

“Stubborn, you say?” Anita drawls, nudging a worried Damien into helping her plate the tostadas. 

“Yes! I was only offering some suggestions,” Hugo barks, pushing his glasses back up. “It’s not like I’m in a hurry for him to leave, he’s the one who wants to go back- but no! He has to jump all over me like I’m insulting him!” 

“Hm, so he’s so intent on his own agenda that he’s not interested in hearing a second opinion?” Anita looks over her shoulder as Hugo enthusiastically nods. “I wonder where he might have learned that from?” 

Hugo deflates faster than a popped balloon. Damien nearly wants to hug him, but that likely won’t go over well given how his cheeks are burning. “Well-! It’s not like I’m wrong. He has options and if he’d just-“ 

“ _Mijo,_ please,” Anita tuts, handing Hugo a fistful of his own cutlery to set the table. “It’s a holiday weekend, it’s not like he’s letting any opportunities pass him by. Besides, I didn’t come all this way to listen to you two argue.” 

Hugo sighs in defeat, stepping close to kiss the top of her head. She’s certainly not short, but still fits neatly under Hugo’s chin as he hugs her close. “I know. _Lo siento, Mama._ ” 

Ernest and the Duchess get called back in, everyone eating eagerly while Ernest chatters away to his abuela about something he and Carmensita are planning for the year-end assembly. Marcel and Hugo sit adjacent but relatively silent. Damien keeps watching them as he gets into a discussion with Anita regarding the gaps between public and private schools. 

“Oh, if only we had the funding for that!” Anita bemoans after Damien’s description of his alma mater’s extracurricular roster. “The school the boys went to could barely keep the stage in decent repair, it still barely passes code last I heard. And the wrestling team had to hold how many bake sales to go to regionals, three?” 

“Four,” Hugo cuts in, picking at his plate. “I didn’t end up going, but I did nail that macaroon recipe on the third try.” 

“Ah, that’s right! You got sick, that was too bad.” 

“Pft, no he didn’t! He- Ow!” Marcel’s expression darkens at the sound of a kick from under the table, sharing a glare with his older brother. 

“What was that?” 

“I said he wasn’t sick, he- Agh!” Another kick, hard enough to knock his chair back a few inches. “Will you fu- friggin’ stop? What’s your problem?” 

“Whatever you’re doing, knock it off.” Anita scolds, gesturing with her fork at Marcel. “What were you saying?” 

“He wasn’t sick, he had a gigantic crush on the guy he was ‘sposed to have a match with,” Marcel continues baldly. “He faked running in and out of the bathroom with stomach cramps to get sent home, but then I caught him doing the thermometer on the lightbulb thing, so he gave me his allowance as hush money.” 

“Hugo! Did you really?” 

“Thermometer on the- Wait, is that why you always watched me take my temperature? I’ve never even heard of that!” 

“Well! I mean- I was just a dumb kid, you know?” Hugo rubs the back of his neck, blushing furiously and trying to force a smile. “It all seemed like a good solution at the time. It was just a- a one-time lapse in judgment.” 

“No it wasn’t,” Marcel adds flatly, free of previous annoyance. He shifts his chair out of Hugo’s attack range and starts counting on his fingers. “There was the time you put Jello in the school pool, the time you skipped school because you hadn’t studied for your science exam, all the times you came home drunk after curfew and pretended to have been in bed with a migraine the whole time- Man, I made so much money off of you. How did you even afford those pot brownies?” 

Hugo takes a long, deep breath through his nose, Ernest breathlessly cackling all the while, and takes his brother very firmly by the shoulder. “I bring you into my home, I feed you, do your laundry, and this is how you repay me? By ratting me out after all these years? What did I ever do to you?” 

“Oh come on, it was forever ago,” Marcel tuts, trying and failing to squirm out of Hugo’s grip. “It’s not like she’s still gonna be mad, right, Mom?” 

Anita offers a curt smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ll get back to you on that.” 

“Way to get dragged, Dad.” Ernest quickly fist-bumps Marcel, who’s wearing a sneer much too young for him. 

“Ernest, it’s your night to clear the table.” Hugo says a bit sternly, ignoring Ernest’s muttered complaints as he stands. “I picked up some hot cross buns for dessert, I’ll go get them.” 

“I’ll get them, _cariño_ ,” Anita presses his shoulder. “No offense, but when you do them, they’re barely lukewarm. Do you want any, Damien?” 

“Two please, if there’s enough,” Damien smiles and moves so Ernest can begrudgingly take his dishes. He schools his tone into something diplomatic. “You two are so close. It must be nice having someone to share all your childhood memories with.” 

The brothers glance at each other a little uncertainly, Marcel shrugging. “I guess you live with anyone long enough and they end up remembering all the dumb stuff you do.” 

“True enough,” Hugo suddenly acquires a devious smile. “Like your ninth grade crush, remember how that turned out?” 

Now it’s the younger Vega’s turn to look panicked. “No, no, come on! Not cool!” 

Hugo purposefully looks away from his brother, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Now, what was her name? Lisa Morales, right? You wrote her that love letter and snuck it into her locker right before Christmas break-“ 

“Dude, seriously! It’s in the vault, we spat and shook on it!” 

“But you actually put it in one of the cheerleading storage lockers, so it got found by Miss Khor,” Hugo continues. “Who, turns out, was also named Lisa! So you got pulled into the guidance counsellor’s office for a nice, long talk and a note home about appropriate behaviour and how these things happen because your hormones are all out of whack, but you need to seek out people your own age. Remember that? I sure do.” 

Damien feels a wave of acute second-hand embarrassment wash over his third-wheel feelings. “How- terribly unfortunate.” 

“It definitely was, but it was forever ago, right, Mar?” Hugo ruffles his brother’s hair, making it stick up even more. The anger on Marcel’s face has Damien legitimately concerned, chewing on the inside of his lip and half-tempted to excuse himself and scurry home. “All in the past, no need to be embarrassed, right?” 

“Damien,” Marcel’s head snaps in his direction, his voice quiet and calm. “Were you aware that when Hugo first got his braces on, the retainer was fitted improperly, which resulted in him having a lateral lisp for several months?-“ 

“No, hang on. We don’t need to keep doing this. I’m sorry-“ 

“During which time,” Marcel interrupts, catching the attention of Ernest, who has wandered back in with Duchess’ washed and refilled food dish. “We took a trip to New York City, of which we have several hours of home video footage currently sitting in the converter software on my laptop. You remember where my case is, right?” 

“Oh my god, yes!” Ernest nearly drops the dog dish, impish with glee. He disappears through the kitchen, charging down the basement stairs. “This is happening!” 

Hugo leans in, mere inches from his brother’s face. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

Marcel simply arches an eyebrow. “Your move, _puta_.” 

Damien isn’t entirely certain what happens next, except that both their chairs get knocked back and Hugo is suddenly standing and holding Marcel in something resembling a half-Nelson, slowly dragging him towards the living room. Anita emerges from the kitchen, one hand holding the serving plate of buns and the other pressed to her temple. “For God’s sake, you two! Can’t I leave you alone for five minutes?” 

“Just taking out the trash,” Hugo grunts, voice strained as Marcel tries to claw his way out of his grasp. “Back in a minute- Agh! Dammit, not in the stomach!” 

The impromptu brawl is halted by a strained muscle in Hugo’s back, as well as the temptation of dessert being strong enough for all parties involved to enter into a food-coma based truce. Damien is urged to stay the night by an insistent arm around his waist. He texts Lucien to ask if he had dinner, if he minds, and to please not throw any parties in his absence, receiving responses of yes, of course not, and that no one is “getting turnt” on Easter weekend. 

Hugo returns from the en-suite, washed up and deliciously relaxed in just his green plaid boxers. He crawls onto his side of the bed and pulls Damien in for some lazy kisses and caresses. Hugo’s fingers scratch gently against the base of his scalp, while Damien traces meaningless patterns against the firmness of his lover’s arms. “Mm, I’m tired. I think today wore me out.” 

“Playing host is always tiring, even for family.” Damien murmurs against Hugo’s jaw, pausing for a moment. “That disagreement between you and Marcel- was it serious? I er, couldn’t pick up the thread of it.” 

“Ah, no, not really.” Hugo runs a hand through his hair and lays them down, pulling the duvet up. “I mean, I was pissed, and so was he, but it’s whatever. I just- I do wish he’d move closer. We talk all the time, but it’s not the same.” 

“Of course, you must miss him.” 

“I do,” he sighs. “But, maybe more than that, he’s so good with Ernest. I mean, they gang up on me a lot, but it’s never serious. He doesn’t like stressing his uncle out, so he’s pretty toned down when Marcel’s here.” 

Damien nods, he’s noticed already. The two appeared to vibrate on the same frequency, the years between them seemingly irrelevant. 

“Hah, god, that’s so manipulative, isn’t it?” Hugo drags a hand down his face. “I just- He’s so much more- himself when they’re here, it makes me wonder what they’re doing that I’m not.” 

“There’s nothing manipulative about wanting a good support system,” Damien frowns, propping his head up on one hand. “And you aren’t doing anything wrong, love. I was bratty for my parents and an angel for my grandparents at that age too, it’s normal. It’s the closeness of your relationship that lets him feel free to get angry and upset around you.” 

“Yeah, but,” Hugo trails off, rolling onto his side. He presses back against Damien, humming at the weight of warm limbs wrapping around him. “I just worry. About both of them. At least Mom’s okay, as far as I know.” 

“I know you do,” Damien runs a soothing hand down his side, feeling the muscles there flinch. “I hope this isn’t an overstep, but your mother spoke to me about your father’s passing.” Silence. “I didn’t know you were that young, that must have been very hard on both of you.” 

“It…still sort of is,” Hugo says, so quietly he can barely be heard above the creaks of the house and distant familial snores. “I thought I’d eventually move past it, somehow. But I still think about him every day, how he didn’t see me graduate, he wasn’t at my wedding, he never got to meet Ernest, or you…” 

Hugo’s voice catches in his throat. Damien curls even closer, the only thing between them being the thin line of his nightshirt. Grief is carved from the heaviest stone, its weight shifting unexpectedly and without reason. He rubs gentle circles into the softness of Hugo’s stomach, trying to silently pour love and understanding into him as he often did with a younger Mary, usually when they returned to their college apartment after visits home. 

“We put his ashes in three urns,” Hugo continues, voice lower still. “I saw Marcel’s in one of his boxes downstairs- I guess I wouldn’t want to put him in a storage locker either.” A thick swallow, Damien feels more than hears it. “I think he- resents isn’t the right word, envies, maybe? That I got to be with Dad longer. I think he remembers more stories than actual memories, I’m sure it bothers him. It would bother me.” 

“I don’t know if there is a right word for it.” Damien kisses the warm skin of Hugo’s shoulder. He searches for comfort in his mind, but all the words come up lacking and trite. “He must have been a remarkable man, will you tell me about him sometime?” 

A long pause. “Yeah, sometime.” Hugo shifts and snuggles into the worn pillow. He picks up Damien’s right hand, brushing a tender kiss across the palm, a patina of humour on his tone. “They won’t be mopey ones, I promise. Get some sleep, _cariño,_ we’ll have a full day tomorrow.” 

Hugo drifts quietly towards the arms of Morpheus. Damien lies awake, his long limbs framing his partner’s bulkier ones, and Hugo’s loose hair tickling his nose. A nagging vision of an older Lucien, similarly weighed down and frozen in time by an aching sense of responsibility, worries him into dreamless sleep. 

The following morning, after shucking his nightclothes for the spare set of slightly more casual Victorian garments he keeps in Hugo’s wardrobe, Damien finds Hugo and Anita downstairs, wide awake and already engaged in some sprightly conversation over coffee. On cue, Ernest and Marcel come shambling from upstairs and down, still in pajamas. He pauses at a low table in the hall, surprised by a cluster of plastic treat bags labelled with their names. “Hugo! Are these from you?” 

“Happy another-chocolate-based-holiday!” Hugo jests, glancing over as Ernest tears into the plastic wrappings a little too eagerly for nine a.m. “I just wanted to do a little something for everyone, since you all came to spend the weekend here.” 

“What about me? I live here,” Ernest asks, voice thick with the innards of a crème egg. 

“Kids get candy on every holiday, relish that privilege while it still belongs to you,” Marcel methodically peels the cellophane off his treats while Anita affectionately toys with her oldest son’s hair, a box of dark chocolates tucked protectively beside her. “Oh my god, are these Peeps? I haven’t had these in forever! I can’t find them anywhere in Watertown!” 

“What?!” Hugo asks, genuinely shocked. “Do they run out that quickly?” 

“No, I’ve looked everywhere. It’s completely Peep-less, and not for lack of me trying,” Marcel insists, removing one eye-dotted marshmallow from its package and rolling it between his fingers. “You know what this means?” 

Hugo produces a small dollar store box of toothpicks seemingly from nowhere, expression extremely serious. “Peep war?” 

“Peep war.” The brothers disappear to the microwave in an instant, Ernest following quickly behind. Damien and Anita trade off favourite jelly beans while observing the messy round-robin-style tournament. Hugo eventually comes up third and has to scrub the half-burnt marshmallow gunk off the microwave plate. A decision is made to attend the all-ages Easter egg hunt Joseph arranged in the park, Hugo and Damien being the keenest on it, while the others acquiesce due to lack of anything else being open. 

While inviting Lucien along via text from the bathroom, he hears Hugo very casually mention the exact address and name of the jewelry store that’s two streets up and one over from the Coffee Spoon, suggesting that they might be hiring and that he’s probably taught the owner’s children. Marcel’s response is muffled and when Damien comes out, he’s not in the living room with the rest of the family. 

After fixing the settings on the television so they can watch Youtube videos on it, Damien surreptitiously sneaks a few dog treats from the jar in the high cupboard. He finds Duchess in the backyard, racing after the ragged tennis ball repeatedly thrown by Marcel from where he sits hunched on the thin railing. 

He shakes his head, tugging his collar up when Damien excuses himself for intruding. “I’m not hiding, just needed a little break. You can stay. I think she really wants those biscuits.” 

An understatement, as Duchess is nearly sitting on his feet. He walks her through the few tricks she knows to earn them, which she happily gobbles up and immediately returns to jumping and pawing for the ball. 

“She seems quite fond of you.” 

“Yeah, she’s a good dog. Maybe I’ll get a dog in my next place. Dogs are really great.” 

“They most certainly are,” Damien shuffles in place. “Are you- angry with your brother?” 

Marcel’s face quirks in an endearingly familiar way. “Why?” 

“Well, if you two would like some alone time, I’d be quite alright returning to my own home. I don’t wish to make things awkward.” 

“Nah, you’re good,” Marcel pries the ball from Duchess’ slobbery maw once more, pitching it towards the back fence. “Irritated is a better word. It’s like he’s trying to make me feel bad.” 

Damien looks away from Duchess’ adorable attempt at athleticism in surprise. “What makes you say that?” 

“I know he’s not, you don’t have to defend your man,” Marcel smirks faintly, rotating his shoulder with a pop. “I’m not a huge fan of double standards is all.” He glances over when Damien doesn’t reply. “How close were you and him when they split up?” 

“Not at all, I think he’d been divorced for some months by the time we properly got to know one another, as friends that is.” 

“Oh. The way he talks makes it seem like he’s known you forever, and my memory for dates is no good.” Marcel shifts, bracing his feet on the ledge of the porch. “I’d known him and Nick were on the skids, that was old news. But do you know when he told me about the divorce?” 

“When?” Damien is a little sorry for the topic, but glad the man is warming up to him, unless this is all leading up to some Mary-style threatening of his physical health he should break dear Hugo’s heart. 

“The night he moved in here, after the papers were signed,” Marcel looks over with a grim, incredulous sneer. “A Monday or a Tuesday, calls me at like nine, I’m eight hours away and my boss was an ass even then. There was nothing I could do until the weekend. Same with Mom, he knew that. So he just sat here in this empty house, alone, for almost a week. It bugged me. It still bugs me.” 

Damien presses his lips together as Marcel continues. “But I lose one mediocre job and one crapsack apartment, and he has to drop everything to try and make it all better. I just-” he fires the ball to the property line once more. “I’m only telling you because he won’t listen to me. You live here. You gotta keep an eye on him for that stuff. I wish I lived closer too, but-“ 

Marcel drops his head with a sigh, running his hand through his hair. Damien starts gathering his thoughts for a reply, but is interrupted. “Sorry, that was a lot of information you probably weren’t asking for. Just figured you should know what’s up so you don’t think I’m a complete ass.” 

“No, not at all.” Damien leans a bit on one of the posts, twitching at how cold it is even with the early spring sun. “It has- come up. I try to look after him as he looks after me, and we seem to be achieving a good balance so far.” 

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure what to make of you at first, but you seem really nice. He needs that, I think. A really nice person.” Marcel toys with a stray curl behind his ear and lets Duchess push her head into his lap. “I mean, he’s really good at a lot of things, so I guess he has to totally suck at a couple things to even it all out. Not like I’m perfect. I’m sure he gave you the ‘Marcel is good with rocks and not people’ talk?” 

“Nothing of the sort,” Damien shakes his head, relief easing the tightness in his chest. “He did show me some of your work, though. I understand if you’d rather not discuss your vocation at the moment, but I’d love to learn more about how you make such marvelous pieces. I find the whole process so fascinating.” 

“What, really?” Marcel side-eyes him, a chill wind whipping sharply against them. “Ugh, let’s go in- what’d he show you?” 

“The charm bracelet for your godmother, some of your wedding sets, that marvelous Christmas ornament you made for Ernest,” Damien claps his hands together. “Oh, and your drawings! He has quite a few, they’re all splendid.” 

“Oh my god, those must be so old.” Marcel cringes, visibly repulsed, before pulling his heavy sweater over his head. “I can’t give him anything- he hangs onto it forever. He better not still have that birthday card, I swear.” 

“Er, that wouldn’t be the one with Pablo Escobrawl on it, would it?” 

Marcel lets out something between a groan and a wheeze. He points an accusatory finger at Hugo, who enters the room nibbling a round gouda and looking confused. “You. Burn all my old art. Today. I’m not kidding.” 

“Why would I do that?” Hugo furrows his brow. “It’s all fantastic. I was going to frame some after I repaint the upstairs.” 

“No, it’s absolutely not.” 

“Yes it is!” Hugo turns to Damien. “Have I shown you his portfolio website? His detail work is phenomenal.” 

“No, I’d love to see it!” 

“I swear to God,” Marcel rolls his eyes, tearing off a hunk of Hugo’s cheese and popping it into his mouth before Hugo can stop him. 

“That has my saliva on it!” 

Marcel chews audibly, raising an eyebrow. “When has that ever worked?” 

“I found the lint brush!” Anita steps into the dining room. “Who wants to be de-dogged first?” 

“We should probably just change,” Hugo tugs the collar of his faded yellow t-shirt, a small cloud of hair puffing out as his does. “She’s losing her winter coat all over the place.” 

“Oh!” Damien realizes the necessity of it. “I don’t want to put any of you out-“ 

“Yeah, let’s just murder your son ‘cause laundry’s too hard.” Marcel sends a quick half-grin his way and heads towards the basement. “Ernest, c’mere, I have like five shirts to give you and I keep forgetting.” 

“No Disney ones this time, or I’ll put them on Duchess. I’m serious.” Ernest whinges, but quickly follows. 

“You know, dear,” Anita’s at his side, rolling the lint brush over his clothes unbidden. He moves to do it for himself, but a vague yet readable gesture from Hugo assures him that resistance is futile. “I’m not one to invite myself and you don’t have to say yes, but I’ve been admiring your house since I got here. A friend of mine turned me on to architecture recently. I’d love to see it up close.” 

“Of course! Perhaps we could take tea after the egg hunt?” Damien replies brightly, then pauses. “Ah, what’s your comfort level with taxidermy specimens?” 

“I used to volunteer for my university’s zoological collection, dead animals and I are old friends- Oops,” She reaches up, brushing her fine, wrinkled fingers through Damien’s hair. “You’ve got some antennas. Not as bad as Hugo, though. I promise I taught him how to brush his hair, he just never listened.” 

Hugo complains and states his hair styling routine rather insistently. Anita ignores him and finishes smoothing down Damien’s flowing white dress shirt, fixing him with an approving smile that warms his heart. 

The air’s just cold enough to sting their hands, the ground sodden, and the park amass with screaming children, cracked plastic eggs at their feet and bleary, unsuitable grey clouds overhead. The boys insult, shove, and joke with each other in turns, growing increasingly competitive as Lucien reaches the higher-tucked treats while Ernest scrambles along the ground, skidding grass stains onto his knees. Anita tells an increasingly entertaining story of her first year of teaching, a one-year maternity contract at a Philadelphia parochial high school, involving a Passion play gone spectacularly wrong while they trail behind. 

Hugo and Marcel follow, absorbed in overlapping conversations and snatching a few eggs left behind by the older kids. Marcel and Damien seamlessly switch spots at some point, Hugo’s hand sliding into Damien’s, natural as anything, as they wander down one of the park’s steep hills. Marcel murmurs an odd, decontextualized in-joke to make Hugo laugh and he does, almost too loud and momentarily childish. 

Hugo’s explanation is faltering, interrupted by his son’s attempt at a backflip, and ultimately not especially humourous, but Damien feels so perfectly in place that he laughs all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this one fought me really hard when writing it, dunno why. More plot-based fics are coming next, I just wanted both families to get their time in the spotlight. 
> 
> Asdfg I'M SORRY FOR KILLING HUGO'S DAD, there was a particular angle I wanted to write the characters from and Papa Vega was a casualty. He was a great guy!! Hopefully he'll show up in some backstory drabbles I want to write. 
> 
> Marcel is named after Marcel Proust, and Hugo (in my hc) is named after Victor Hugo. Hugo got his habit of naming children after favourite authors from his mom. 
> 
> The title is a line from 'Shifting the Sun' by Diana Der-Hovanessian, a very good and sad poem. Sorry again. 
> 
> Feel free to correct my secondhand Spanish! It's definitely not my strong suit. 
> 
> It feels almost weird to note this for some reason, but I've been writing Damien on the autism spectrum, and Marcel is too. It's just a personal headcanon based off my own experience. I always like when authors write different takes on the same characters, so I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!!!


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